was this what young macbeth felt after murdering sleep?

I’m working past midnights, pulling all-nighters again. My brain is overflowing with ideas, many of them not so inspired nor original, but that are here, tingling, effervescent, bubbling. I feel them, like an electric shock behind my eyes, like a shot of adrenaline. I feel it, here, coursing through all of my flesh, my poor human body, soft and kneaded, I feel it pushing me away while tethering me to the soft bounds of awareness, reality and craziness. I feel my thoughts free of commas and periods, bounding me page after page, keeping me afloat in the sea of night. So, this is it! Insomnia, the cure for all my evils. I can’t seem to sleep nights again and work seems hard, as well as concentrating but this actually solves everything. The days usually feel so dull and trivial, so mundane and much less than special, less productive and pretty than its dark companion, or than what I seem to be considering myself as. Here comes the night, the train of thought that never misfires, never goes away, like a mad roman candle, like a firefly, freeing men from the foolishness of bright, tired days. A small, good thing. A silver lining. Maybe this sleepless binge is the result of all the anger stuck in the back of my mind, burning like a fuel, an oil lamp that will guide me through the path that leads me out of my hole. I feel good. I feel the energy that flows, I feel the hate and I create. The side effect, of course, is that I surely as hell feel a little deranged (and in the bad sense), I feel in the dark side of the town, in the maniac perception of me. But I am somewhat comfortable. The bloodshot eyes are only a warning, the blood in the hands only a harmless illusion. And I’m smiling through the storm and typing away furiously, night after night. As I lay with eyes open, a million synapses like clockworks in my head, I feel the city’s thrill and hear the cockroaches crawl, inside the wallpaper, in the holes in the walls, underneath the concrete and the skins of people. I hear the night away and its sultry voice, calling me, whispering; it keeps me alert and, when I fall under, it wakes me, its hot hand keeping me sweating, awakened every dark hour, my hair clinging to my clammy scalp. It tells me what I need to hear. It unsettles but it moves me, so very good for my revenge. It is a thrill and a pleasure and energetic, the darkest hour when everything gets so fantastic, away from the prying eyes of others, the judgment of the righteous. Well, but I guess this is something only crazy people know, and only the mad can understand its appeal. Surely, it is scary, but what good thing isn’t? It keeps the wheels moving, making life a drop more interesting. And it calls for the grown man’s liquid companion, the wine, a good amount of it; and it surely can puts one, if not on the comic side, on the insane side. It puts me right there, sitting on the edge of the blade. But, what can one do when its flavor and richness tickles one’s fancy? Its surge is so imperative, the overload, the over work. Its tiresome, surely, and demanding. Debilitating somehow, but so good, wired, electric, like neon to the world’s dark clouds. It’s brain-frying, but oh, well my funeral! Until morning, I shall go, burning all oils, my brain cells in the frenzy, chaotic fever. Surely, I shall lose a few memories but not now not now not now when I have all this junk I need to put out to the world, all these words I need to scream out and all those fucking pretty faces I need to punch the lights out, drawing my sword up in the air – my word! – while I am still alive and awake and purely, madly, unabridged.

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